


Petal Talk

by tapioca_two_step



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Fluff and Angst, Gen, Genderless Frisk, One Shot, Overprotective Sans, a criminal lack of puns for a fic featuring Sans, hit that reset button baby, its says Frisk/Sans but it's really more of a platonic guardianship kind of thing, no mention of Chara
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-12
Updated: 2016-09-12
Packaged: 2018-08-14 16:36:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,834
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8021167
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tapioca_two_step/pseuds/tapioca_two_step
Summary: Broken by the relentless fight with Flowey, Frisk now needs someone else to SAVE them.





	Petal Talk

_"You have set me free."_

They are tiny compared to the monstrosity, a mote of dust before a flame. The world has gone to hell around them, or perhaps that's where they've been all along. All they know—all there is—is the god blooming into existence before their eyes, laughing and terrible and endless, a part of the darkness, a part of everything. The black mass of its form writhes above them like a thunderhead, and their ears are full of rushing wind. The smell of flowers, lemony and sweet, is thick in the air. Their lungs are paralyzed with it.

" _You idiot_." The voice singsongs the insult in a thousand different pitches, and the words shriek across their ears. Their knees go boneless and they nearly fall. " _Please, indulge me. Show me how much you think your determination is worth. Show me what you think you can do_."

They can only watch as the flower-god sheds the shadows from its form like the drop of a curtain. They don't know where to look. They don't want to look. Their trembling fingers reach instinctively for their save file. A glowing rectangle appears before them, and with it the promise of escape. They can't fight—they can't be merciful to this.

It shatters under their fingers.

" _Ah-ah-ah_ ," chitters god's voice from above, as they gaze at the fragments of their salvation at their feet. It sends a thrill of fear down their spine. " _I don't think you quite understand what you've gotten yourself into. This isn't something you can slink away from_."

 _He's right_ , they think, slowly raising their eyes to the nightmare looming over them. They avoid its eyes—all of them—looking instead at its thick, twisting vines barbed with thorns larger than Undyne's spears, the glint of metal behind its leaves, its grinning maw poised to grind their body to bits. Vines reach down from the darkness and brush against their face, their neck. Roots as broad as tree trunks come crawling out of the darkness like snakes, green and slithering. A symphony of mechanical grinding and whirring joins the moaning wind. _I don't understand_.

" _I'm going to pull it out of you_ ," the god promises, " _the same way you pull petals off of a flower. The same way the humans won the war_." Its voice becomes ice. " _So, so easily_."

The front of their shirt glows the color of blood, as if they've already been struck. Their hands cover their chest protectively. They feel, deep within them, the slam of their panicked heart. They barely, barely remember bringing that armful of blossoms back to Snowdin. Who had wanted them? Ah, Sans and his brother Papyrus. Papyrus had been trying to bribe Undyne and so had made a three course dinner—all three dishes being spaghetti, of course—but Sans had said the tablescape was a little lacking. He'd sent them on a quick trip down the road to find a few flowers. They'd cut the stems together outside in the snow and listened to Papyrus practicing his "please oh please let me into the Royal Guard" spiel.

"I dunno, Pap," Sans had said as they slipped flower after flower into a vase. "Sounds a bit dry to me."

They almost smile at the memory of his laughter in the face of the taller skeleton's frustration. After countless miles, countless failures, countless deaths, they still remember the sturdy feel of Sans' hand as he'd ruffled their hair. "Nice job on the flowers, kiddo," he'd told them. "Did'ja have to go far?"

 _To the end of the world_ , they think. They plant their feet, hands cupped over their soul, a lonely figure in a dirty pink tutu, pitiful under the mantle of determination. _The end of everything_.

And that's when the stars fall from god's mouth, and then there is nothing but fire.

* * *

 

Frisk opens their eyes in the dark. He had found them again.

They are already trembling when they sit up, the blanket sliding into their lap. They manage to hold the sob in their throat as they look around, trying to place themselves, trying to come back. Blinking through tears, they are relieved to find themselves on the couch in the skeleton brothers' house. They guess that the two sentries are asleep. The house is quiet. The tables with Sans' book and starving pet rock are dark shadows in the gloom, as is the television across from their spot on the couch. They staunchly refuse to look at it. It might be watching. They banish the thought as soon as it comes, but it twists their gut all the same.

Frisk climbs out of bed and folds the blankets with as little rustling as possible. They are always amazed at how keen Papyrus' hearing is, especially since he doesn't have any ears, and the last thing they need right now is to have him come clattering downstairs and demanding to know why they are awake at such an hour. As it is, they'd rather not tell him. Not now. Not yet.

They are already dressed. Their shirt is warm enough for the winter air, but their shorts leave their legs bare. It can't be helped, they think as they pull on their boots. They wouldn't dare rifle around for a pair of Sans' sweatpants now.

Outside, the town is asleep. There's no sun to rely on, so they never know what time it is. Not that it matters. _Not that anything you do matters_ , chimes the voice in their head, as they knew it would. Ignore it, ignore it. They gaze up at the cavern above them, black and sparkling as the night sky. The frigid air they breathe out in clouds tastes like moist earth and pine. The snow is thick on the ground and their boots sink up on the ankles in it when they step away from the front door. They look over their shoulder as they walk, counting the footprints they leave behind. Proof that they have been here. Proof that they _are_ here.

They make their way past the library and Grillby's, its neon sign throwing orange light onto the snow outside its window. More and more presents have piled up under the decorated tree in the middle of town, and if they squint they can see the ornament that they had made with Papyrus the other day—the one made out of popsicle sticks spread with glue and dipped in glitter. "Straight out of the recipe book for the Glamburger!" Papyrus had announced proudly, making them gag a little. The memory makes them smile. It doesn't quite reach their eyes.

They mount the snowy hill outside of town and look down at Snowdin, so calm and quiet that they breathe a steadying sigh. No one has followed them except their own footprints, and these, too, will disappear with the wind soon.

The bridge creaks as Frisk crosses it. The wind pushes it back and forth, like a swing, and they wrap cold hands around the ropes to keep from falling into the abyss below. They can't help but hold their breath as they gaze over the side at the landscape below them. Miles of forest in all directions, broken up in places by vast, mirrorlike lakes. They'd never known Mount Ebott was hiding an entire world beneath it—a world now filled with familiar faces and places. They know the feel of Snowdin's frigid wind on their skin and the sweltering air of Hotland. They know how the Waterfall's spray tastes on their lips and the sound of Mettaton's game show music blaring in their ears. They know the nervous, blushing Alphys and the fierce, brash Captain of the Guard, Undyne. They play tag with Monster Kid and cook dinner with Papyrus every night. They joke with Sans until tears roll from his eyes and their stomach cramps. Their companions. Their friends. Their family.

Funny, that they'd never known that kind of love until they'd fallen.

_And that love is going to destroy everything._

The wind whips Frisk's short, shaggy hair against their neck and face and makes their striped shirt billow around their torso. They hold it down with one hand and with the other guide themselves the rest of the way across the bridge. They'll walk. They'll keep walking, as long as it takes, all night if they have to. Forget what he said. Forget what he did. It's over. It's done.

Reaching the solid ground on the other side of the bridge, they take a moment to catch their breath. There is weight on their shoulders, and they will never admit it to their loved ones, but it is so, so heavy. It had been easy to carry all this time, with so many smiling faces in their memory to carry into battle like armor. With so many friends depending on them, they knew they'd never die.

But fighting the flower-god had taught them that there were much worse things than death in the Underground.

_Save the monsters._

_Save the Underground._

_Save yourself._

_All you need to do is give up your soul._

"We're stuck down here," someone in Snowdin had told them cheerfully. "But there's nothing we can do about it, so why act miserable?"

"Yeah, pretending works wonders!" said another. "If you do it for a really long time you actually start to believe!"

Papyrus' determination to capture them at the beginning of every cycle. Pleading with Undyne to let them pass through Waterfall in peace. And knowing, always knowing, that Asgore was waiting at the end of their journey, his trident aimed for their heart. All those little hints, given by friend and foe alike.

_You will set us free._

They stop before they reach the deep woods. The distant sound of cracking ice and creaking tree trunks reaches their ears. Muffled wings flutter overhead. Instead of going deeper in, they turn and make their way to the side of the path. They wind through trees until they find a few boulders jutting out of the snow. Picking the one with the best view overlooking the valley, they climb up, and with numb hands clear a space to sit. They tuck their oversized shirt over their uncovered knees, wrap their arms around their thighs, and count each breath as it forms in the air and vanishes.

They had been ready for the king, although they hadn't known it when they'd taken those first hesitant steps into what they thought was the throne room. But there he'd been, a great horned beast with a watering can in his hand, and all around them were flowers, golden and sweet. Sunlight—real, warming sunlight—pierced through the barrier here, and its familiarity made their chest constrict.

I've got to show everyone, they'd thought, squinting in the light. They've never seen a sunrise. I can set them free.

_"You have set me free."_

They press their face into the crook of their elbow. Even if they reset a million times they will still see Asgore reaching for their outstretched hand, saying those words again: "We can be a family." They will see Asgore, turning to dust before them, along with all their hopes and dreams for everyone's happy ending.

They will see Flowey raising his head from the ground coated in the king's ashes, his golden face staring up at them with a child's grin.

" _I have so much to thank you for_ ," he'd teased. " _I could never have done it on my own_."

Their breath catches in their throat. Their shoulders shake. They'd been so angry. They'd thought that anger would be enough. How could they have known how wrong they'd been?

 _Cry, cry, show your sorrow_ , sings the voice in their head. _This is what love has given you_.

There's no one to hear. There's no one to see they're still eclipsed by the shadow of the flower-god. Their mouth muffled by their shirt, they wail out their frustration and fury and fear.

That's how he finds them.

"There you are."

They hadn't heard him coming, although they should have expected it. Sans always did have a knack for showing up wherever they needed him the most. At first, asking questions about it only got them enigmatic answers that tended to discourage further query. With their friendship already countless resets old, Frisk thought that they'd have figured Sans out by now. Now, they're merely thankful that he's there when they need him. When he can be.

Sans stops in front of their boulder, hands in the pockets of his hooded blue jacket. From here, he looks even shorter than he already is, but his familiar presence suddenly makes the valley below seem small. He grins up at them, eyesockets black in his snow-white skull, pupils shining in their depths like gems caught in the light. For a skeleton-monster, he is perhaps the most jovial person they have ever met: lazy, laid-back, and completely un-dedicated to the task of capturing humans despite being a sentry. His voice is deep. His laughter is the kind that makes other people smile, too. There's no one better in the Underground who can cheer Frisk up.

Somehow, this makes Frisk flush with shame. This is no chance meeting. Sans came out here on purpose.

"What'cha up to?" They'd be stupid if they thought Sans hadn't heard them crying. They decide to be honest.

"Couldn't sleep."

"I can see that. So you thought you'd try an ultra-comfortable boulder instead? The couch isn't that lumpy."

Their laugh comes out like a dry sob. Sans makes a sound like he's clucking his tongue, except he doesn't have one, as far as Frisk knows. They don't ask too many questions about personal anatomy around here.

"Bad dreams?"

Frisk hugs their legs tighter. Nods.

"About what?"

Tighter. "A flower."

The corner of Sans' eyes crinkle. His and his brother's ability to convey expressions despite their bodies being made of bone is something else Frisk doesn't ask about. "Aw, come on. Flowers can't do anything to you."

 _This one did_. They want to disappear. They don't answer for fear of their voice breaking, so instead they put on a bitter smile and nod once.

At first, it doesn't look like Sans is going to buy the act, but, surprisingly, he leaves the matter alone. "You look cold, kiddo. You're gonna make yourself sick wandering around out here."

As if on cue, they both glance down at Sans' black basketball shorts. Frost glazes his leg bones. He gives a short laugh and puts a skeletal hand on the back of his skull. The fluff on his jacket's hood stirs in the wind. "Well, do as I say, not as I do, right?" he chortles.

Frisk pats the rock beside them with one hand.

"Nah. That looks like quite a climb." The boulder is barely four feet tall at its highest point. "Why don't you come on down? It's a little early but I've got a hankering for some good-old charbroiled beef." Other things Frisk doesn't ask about—the origins of the food. They've never seen a cow down here.

Sans holds out his hand. "Join me?"

They couldn't stomach anything right now if they tried. They shake their head. A faint line appears between Sans' browbones. "Don't leave a brother hanging," he says, and Frisk can just barely hear his voice get a little more firm. "Let's go."

And because he says it with his hand outstretched, that relaxed grin on his face, the lights of both pupils fixed on their face, Frisk's heart fills. Reaching down, their fingers wrap around Sans'.

The whoopee cushion hidden within his palm explodes with noise. Frisk blanches.

"Got'cha!" Sans crows with delight. "I can't believe you fell for it again!" Frisk "falls for it" every time they meet outside the Ruins, but they can't help but laugh along. A still-chuckling Sans offers his other hand and helps Frisk down. They send up a puff of snow into the air when they land and pause to brush snow off of the back of their shirt. They hadn't noticed how cold they'd gotten. Their joints ache and their feet are stiff in their boots.

They look over at Sans. He jerks his head towards the rope bridge. "Let's go grab our usual spot, yeah?"

They follow the skeleton back into town. Sans strolls ahead, his hands in his pockets, his pace even and measured. Frisk watches his back until his blue jacket blurs in their vision. Mortified, they swipe their eyes with their hands. It doesn't help. Their cheeks grow sticky with salt, and the bitter wind makes their wet skin sting. They swallow sob after sob until their throat aches.

They hear Sans pause and turn back. They drop their hands from their face and attempt a smile, but they can feel how weak it is. There are still wet tracks down their face.

Sans cocks his head at them, considering them thoughtfully. "Now, that's not a face to show at Grillby's," he finally says. "Didn't know you took such offense to free food."

"Sorry," Frisk whispers hoarsely. "I'm trying."

The skeleton scuffs the snow with the toe of his slipper. He is quiet for a moment, which is long enough for Frisk to scrub the rest of their tears out of their eyes. "Tell you what," he begins slowly, "let's detour for a minute. You obviously need a moment to calm down, but if I bring you home you'll get Papyrus going and then we'll really be in for it. Sound good?"

Frisk makes a pitiful noise in their throat that might be a yes. "All right," their friend says good-naturedly. "C'mere and grab my hand. I know a shortcut."

Frisk obeys, bracing themselves for another explosive fart noise. They're a little disappointed when nothing happens as their fingers close only on jointed bones. "Shut your eyes," Sans tells them. "Don't want you to get dizzy."

They do. Sans tugs on their arm and they follow him, their feet crunching unsteadily through snowdrifts. Between one step and the next, however, their boots land on soft, spongy soil. Likewise, the next breath they take is warmer and tastes of river-weeds. Before Frisk even opens their eyes they know that they're in Waterfall. Their skin is covered with a thin mist and the sound of water crashing down from above is enough to make them have to shout to be heard.

"Relaxing, isn't it!" Sans booms laughter beside them as they walk. Frisk is just thankful that their tears aren't as noticeable now. They follow him down the path. The ceiling is lower here, and once they leave the first set of waterfalls behind they can hear individual drips of water echo as they plink into puddles. The close walls reflect their breathing back at them as a constant sigh.

"Anyplace particular you want to go?" Sans asks them. They're walking side-by-side, close enough for their shoulders to brush together.

Frisk shakes their head.

"You?" they ask.

"Eh. I've got something in mind."

They go on. Frisk has walked this path so many times they can practically navigate it with their eyes closed, which is fortunate, since there is hardly any light in this portion of Waterfall at all. Unlike…unlike the flower-god's darkness, the lack of light in here is somehow calming. Although, they muse, that might just be because of their present company.

The first echo flower they see is growing in the middle of their path. Its bioluminescence casts a soft blue glow on the moss around it, and its six-petaled face is tilted up to catch the drips of water from the ceiling. They both pause to listen to it. Sans leans down to listen better, but Frisk, to their own dismay, takes a step back.

"Wanna give it something to say?" Sans asks, looking over his shoulder.

Frisk shakes their head. They're thankful that Sans probably can't see their expression right now. It's as they're walking away that the tinny reverberation of the skeleton's voice reaches their ears. " _Wanna give it something…_?"

Sans snorts laughter.

The tunnel begins to open up, and the trickle of running water comes from ahead. Frisk wonders just how deep they're going to go.

"You've grown pretty attached to Snowdin, huh?" Sans' question, while friendly, is a little unexpected. Frisk glances over at him.

"I like it," they say.

"Well, good. I like it too. Good place. Good people." His eyes, shining with a light of their own, beam down onto Frisk. "And there's never a shortage of fun stuff to do."

"Like eating at Grillby's," Frisk offers.

"And pranking Papyrus—"

"And building snowmen."

"And telling bad jokes to Papyrus—"

Frisk's smile is genuine. Sans' love for his brother is perhaps the most touching thing they've ever seen. "That, too," they agree.

They walk along another leg of the river. More and more echo flowers nod at them from the banks. Frisk can't quite remember this portion of Waterfall before, but after a while another faint sound joins the hush of the water. It's the music box in the statue, safe under the umbrella that Frisk had left there a few days ago. It plays a sweet lullaby that, even after listening to it for all this time, fills Frisk with hope. They hum a few notes. Their chest grows warm.

"Papyrus really enjoys you being around," Sans says suddenly. "Haven't seen him have this much fun with a human in…well, ever. For one, I'm glad you've decided to stick around for a while."

Frisk knows they should be very cautious responding to this kind of talk. Sans is prone to letting on exactly what he knows—which, Frisk knows, is more than he thinks he knows. In the same way that they've never been able to figure out Sans' teleportation trick, they've always been afraid of asking him to elaborate on the hints like the one he just made, but knowing him, his answer would probably mystify. They couldn't just ask him why he thought they were acting different, because Sans wasn't supposed to know that different existed. But he does.

Frisk has forgotten exactly when they'd learned that they weren't the only person under Mount Ebott who knew about going back. About cutting a timeline short the same way that they'd cut those flower stems. About—

They shake their head to clear it. "Me, too," they say mildly, hoping that will pass as an acceptable answer.

Sans doesn't seem to hear. He's inspecting the walls around them, feeling the damp rocks with his hand. "Know it's around here somewhere," he mutters under his breath, before he startles Frisk with an, "A-ha!"

Frisk finds themselves snagged by the elbow and pulled away from the riverbank and down a path they don't quite recognize. They stumble a little, their boots slipping on wet rocks, and are about to complain to Sans to slow down when the tunnel suddenly opens up into a small cavern.

Frisk gapes.

It's completely filled with echo flowers.

"Pretty cool, huh?" Sans says proudly from behind them. "I found it the other day. Let's go have a look."

Frisk actually has to squint against how bright the room is. There are so many flowers that they couldn't step anywhere without crushing some of them. The stalactites stand in sharp relief above them like the teeth of some enormous animal. Sans glows like a night-light. He strolls off the path and into the field. Some of the flower petals, light and fine as ash, whirl up into the air, filling it with a faint potpourri. Frisk follows him, stopping at the edge, toeing the head of a flower.

Sans seems to notice their hesitation. "You won't hurt them," he says. Then, after a brief pause, he seems to remember what Frisk had told him earlier. "And they won't hurt you, either. See?" He reaches down and picks one, waving it at Frisk like it's an enticing treat. "Just a flower."

They don't want to make Sans feel bad. They don't want to tell Sans that Flowey is—was—just a flower, so they take a step into the field. A flower's stem folds under their boot.

The human and the monster stand side-by-side, admiring the view. "Like it?" Sans asks after a moment.

Frisk nods.

Sans' grin gets wider, if that's possible, and suddenly he sits down in the middle of the field, sending up a cloud of petals that Frisk has to wave away from their face. They sneeze, and Sans chuckles. "Sit down, kiddo. Let's relax for a sec. And, uh," he says, "We gotta talk."

Giving Sans a look that they hope is nonchalant, they settle on the ground next to their friend. The music box's melody is faint, but they can still hear it.

Sans clears his throat. "Now, don't take this the wrong way, kid, cuz I like you a lot. You get along with Pap and you can be pretty punny when you want to be. It just seems like you're…how do I say this…stuck. Hey—now, wait, don't give me that look. You're a human, kiddo, yet you're setting up shop in Snowdin like you've got plans to put roots down in the snow. You practically evicted Undyne from the couch and while I know you're a kid and giving gifts is fun, exactly how many glittery popsicle sticks do you think that tree in the middle of town can hold up?"

Frisk's fingers twitch. It would be so easy. Reach out for their save. Rewind their walk, Sans' offer for breakfast, their screaming panic on the boulder.

Their dream.

"A lot?" Frisk asks with a smile.

"That's not what I'm asking, kiddo."

Needing something to do with their hands, Frisk runs their fingers over the tops of the flowers surrounding them.

"Just lazy," they say with a smile. "Like you."

The excuse is so weak that Sans sits there staring at them for a few minutes. Frisk stoically keeps their eyes on the flower they're petting. When he speaks again, Sans' voice is lower than it usually is.

"I know that look on your face," he says, leaning back and bracing himself with his hands behind him. His foot begins to bounce to the slow tempo of the lullaby. "It's the look of somebody who's found themselves in a situation they can't get out of. They can't figure out how they've gotten into such a scrape, and they used to be sure that they'd get out of it, but things aren't always so easy, huh?"

Frisk's hands drop into their lap.

"All their hard work? Worthless. Everything they've accomplished? Pointless. No matter how hard they try, no matter how many different paths they take, their ultimate reward is failure. Big time failure. There's nothing to do after that but just…stop, right? And that's what people do. They turn that corner. They put all their failures down and walk away, cuz there's too many pieces of that messed up puzzle to fix. Not to say that it isn't always on their minds. Thing is, though, that messes a person up. That's the worst part. They've got to pretend that they aren't going crazy, thinking of all those what-ifs and maybes."

Frisk's shoulders shake. Their eyes close. The echo flowers around them are slowly picking up Sans' words and are murmuring to each other. Sans gazes at the stalactite ceiling. The glow from the flowers tints his skull light blue but leave his eye sockets darker, somehow.

"You can hide a lot of things with a smile," he says.

Frisk's heart stutters and their head jerks to look at Sans. He's still not looking at them, still grinning up at the ceiling, still tapping his foot to the beat of the gentle lullaby.

"Look, kiddo," he begins slowly. "I don't know what's going on in that fuzzy head of yours, but I just wanted to let you know that you're handling this whole thing a lot more gracefully than I thought a human could. You know full well what's waiting for you at the end of this road, and it ain't a field of pretty little flowers. But… however badly you think you messed up, you can't stop halfway. You just gotta vow to do better in the future and keep going. Like I said, we all like you, but the Underground is no place for humans. Or monsters, heh heh." Sans glances at them again. "Anyway, that was my spiel. I ain't gonna tell you to do something that, truthfully, I probably wouldn't do myself. Just wanted to give you some food for thought. Besides fries," he adds, winking.

 _If only you knew_ , Frisk is thinking. _Or maybe you do. Maybe you're just…_

 _…being merciful_.

Frisk swallows the barb in their throat. "In my dream," they begin, and then their voice chokes off.

"Just tell me what you remember," Sans says after a few minutes pass. "If it helps."

What they remember? How could they ever forget? That first jerk out of the throne room, back into a save that they didn't recall making. Darkness everywhere, empty as the sky, and when Flowey started laughing it had sent ice through every vein they had.

That tiny little golden bloom, glowing rainbow in the light of the souls that swam around it like fireflies, had—had—

Frisk's hands twist in their lap.

"I was…trapped," they say, remembering the sting of the needle-like vines as they had struck through their body, the fly-trap mouths that crushed the breath from their lungs. "Fl…the flower was a monster. Not like usual. It…it…."

Slow tears drip down their chin.

"Ah, shoot," they hear Sans sigh from beside them. "Look, kiddo, I'm not really the right guy for waterworks. Now, if Papyrus was here, he'd be right there with you—bawlin' like a baby, that is."

"Can't help it," Frisk whispers.

Again. Again. Again and again and again. Death, rebirth. Death, rebirth. Within three beats of their heart they would burn, resurrect, and burn again. They'd never fought a battle where their turn had never come, where they couldn't puzzle out how best to get their assailant to let them go. There was no understanding the flower-god, no dodging its assault, no braving the storm. They could do nothing but cry for help as the dark swallowed their voice.

And die. Over and over.

"It hurt me," they finish lamely.

"Any place specifically?"

Frisk almost points to their chest, but instead their finger goes to their temple and taps twice.

"Aah," the skeleton says. "Thought so."

"Just a dream," Frisk says, clarifying quickly.

Sans laughs dryly. "Right, right. Well, didn't you just call for help?"

Frisk doesn't know how to tell him. "Too far," they decide to say, smiling through tears.

A look passes over Sans' face, a mix of anger and annoyance—and, Frisk thinks, sorrow. He points a skeletal finger at their nose. "Look, kiddo, we're practically family. I don't care if you're running around in another dimension. You need help, you call me. I'll come." Taken aback, Frisk whispers, again, "Just a dream, Sans."

" _Just a dream, Sans_ ," whisper the flowers around them.

Sans turns his face away from Frisk. His voice is suddenly gruff. "Yeah, well. How long you been having this dream, kid?"

Frisk's body stiffens. They shouldn't answer. They should run. Sans should know better, asking something like that.

But out of all their friends, Sans deserved to know. Out of all their friends, Sans would know the significance of the truth. And they couldn't tell him. He'd never forgive them if he knew.

Befriending Toriel. Meeting Sans. Going on a date with Papyrus. Answering questions on Mettaton's game show. Their journey always went so well at first. So many new friends, so many new adventures. The fact that everything always ended with the flower-god's triumph made each reset all the more bitter.

At first, Frisk told themselves that they were doing it for a reason. They needed to go back, just in case there was something that they'd missed—some act of mercy that would ultimately sway Flowey's decision to kill Asgore. But as they wound and rewound time as easily as with a spool of thread, Frisk found themselves facing an even more bleak truth.

"I was afraid."

Their voice is so quiet that Sans doesn't hear it over the other whispers in the air. He leans closer and ducks his head to see the human's face. The look in their eyes is so miserable that Sans feels something tug deep within his ribcage.

Frisk remembers the rainbow souls rebelling against the flower-god. They remember the blinding light that blasted them out of consciousness, and when they'd woken up, the flower-god was a little golden flower again with tattered petals and a hidden face.

" _Do it_ ," Flowey had muttered. " _End it already_."

And Frisk had.

They'd reset.

"I was afraid," Frisk repeats. Their voice wavers like a ribbon in the wind. The echo flowers do, too. "Not of pain. Being helpless. Being hopeless. Being alone."

They'd known it as soon as they looked into the flower-god's face on its projected television monitor. Its crimson eyes had challenged theirs, and Frisk had looked down and not looked up again. They never would. To that end, they had been smiling and promising freedom to everyone, all the way up until the each time petals of the throne room's flowers brushed against their legs. And then they always, always—

"How long, kiddo?"

His voice is so gentle that it breaks Frisk's willpower in half. "Years," they blubber suddenly. It seems they'll never stop crying, now that they've said it. "I've been having the dream for years."

_I've been resetting for years._

Frisk hides their face in their sleeves. The ever-looming threat of losing their soul paled in comparison to what the flower-god had said.

_No one will see you die._

Flames consumed their body. They blinked and were whole again.

_No one will know you are dead._

A vine lanced out of the darkness and slammed them into the ground. They remained impaled on a thorn like a butcher-bird's prey. Blink. Rewind.

_And soon, they won't even know you existed._

A blaze of light from above, searing and hot, crashed into them with the force of a hurricane.

_Go ahead._

_Call for help._

_I dare you._

There's movement beside them. Sans is getting up. _I knew it. He's leaving_.

"All right. Enough of this. Upsy-daisy."

He pulls them from the ground, and before Frisk realizes what's happening, they're being gathered into a firm hug. Sans' jacket is soft against their skin, but underneath that is the hard, unforgiving structure of his body. Despite this, Frisk wraps their arms around Sans' torso as far as they'll go and buries their face in his chest. Sans sways them back and forth on their feet.

"C'mon, kiddo. It's all right. You're all right." His voice tightens. "Cryin' out loud, you're…you're just a kid. It's all right to be scared. I don't blame you. For anything. At all."

" _For anything_ ," the flowers all agree.

For the years of wasted time while they wandered around feeling sorry for themselves. For lying to their friends' faces and pretending all was well when they'd given up. For being no better than Flowey, manipulating the timelines for their own benefit.

"I want to show you all the sunrise," Frisk wails. The words are muffled. Sans feels their hot breath on his sternum. "I want you all to live on the surface with me. But I'm scared—"

Bone fingers run through their hair. "I know, I know. Hush, come on, you're gonna drown on those tears. I know it's scary, kiddo, and if I could do everything for you I would, believe me. I'd let you veg on the couch all day and eat spaghetti with Pap and I'd take care of everything. That flower'd be fertilizer by the time I'd finished with it."

Frisk chokes on a harsh laugh. Short little hiccups interrupt their quick breaths.

"But—" Sans begins, and his voice actually falters. His hand is still on their head, so they can't look up into his face, but they can feel his body trembling, too. With an effort, they stifle their sobs. If they've made Sans upset, then they're truly the most selfish person in the world.

"But you got something that I don't, kiddo," the skeleton tells them, "You can do so much more than I ever could—and I'm not talking about your soul. You got it in your heart, Frisk."

"Love?" they ask.

Sans rumbles laughter. "Not quite, kiddo. Determination." He puts his hands on their shoulders and pushes them back so they're face to face.

To Frisk's relief, they don't see any trace of sorrow on Sans' face. His grin is lit up with blue light from below. "I've never met a human like you, kiddo," he says, "and even when we get back to the surface, I'm sure I never will. You're not a quitter. You just make glittery ornaments and laugh at my bad jokes until you're feeling brave again. You've been carrying that weight for all these…years, and you've hidden it under such a brave smile. You're…you're something else."

_He said when, not if._

"I'm not asking you to get over your, ah, dream right away," Sans continues. "But just…do me a favor, all right? Don't beat yourself up about so much. I'm the last person in the world to tell you that you're not allowed to take a break. And, ah, if that flower ever tries to get back into your head, just, you know. Don't listen. Listen to me instead, alright? Listen to your friends. You're stronger than that flower. You're stronger than you know."

Frisk blinks a tearful smile up into Sans' face. _So are you_ , they think. "Thank you for listening to me, Sans."

"You okay now?"

They take a breath. Fill their lungs with the faint perfume of echo flowers. Gaze around at the glowing blossoms surrounding them. The melody of the music box sings to them in the distance. "Yeah," they say. "I think so."

Sans presses his forehead against theirs. "Aww, kiddo. You'll get through this. I'm rooting for ya. You're a good kid. And…thanks for telling me the truth."

Before Frisk can register the words, Sans is somehow across the room at the entrance to the cavern.

"I'm starving, kiddo," he calls to them. "Please tell me we can go to Grillby's now."

Frisk giggles, wiping their nose on their sleeve. "Yeah."

"Cool. I could really do with some grub that sticks to my ribs."

"I hope you've got the stomach for it," Frisk shoots back.

Sans' laughter echoes through the tunnel. "I knew there was a reason I loved ya, kiddo."

Their footsteps echo away as they head back to Snowdin. At some point, Sans drapes an arm across Frisk's shoulders. They're not aware of being teleported until they suddenly find themselves falling face-first into the snow in front of Sans' house.

"Whoops," he snorts above them as they come up spluttering. "Watch your step."

 _Very funny_ , they think. They're still brushing snow out of their hair when they arrive at Grillby's. Sans grabs the door handle and then glances over his shoulder at them.

"Also, hey, what I said earlier still stands." At Frisk's quizzical look, he reaches out and chucks Frisk under the chin. "You remember, right? If you ever need me—"

"I'll call," Frisk tells him, and means it.

* * *

 

Frisk loses track of how many timelines pass after that night. Perhaps it was immediately after their trip to Waterfall that they find themselves waving goodbye to Sans and Papyrus and going down the long, lonely road to Hotland. In their pocket is a glitter-covered ornament in the shape of a save point. Sans had made it and given it to them, saying it was a star.

_You've gotta vow to do better in the future and keep going._

The thought carries them all the way to the foot of King Asgore's throne. They hear him just beyond the door, humming to himself in his deep bass voice, splashing water on his beloved golden flowers. The smell of lemons pricks at Frisk's nose.

Flowey's threat from ages before hangs before them like a noose, waiting for them to walk straight into it, but for now, they are breathing easy.

They have yet to face the king.

They have yet to stand against the flower-god.

They have yet to show the sunrise to everyone.

Frisk runs their fingers over the rough glitter on the star in their pocket, and it fills them with determination.

**Author's Note:**

> So this came and hit me over the head. Also posted on ffdotnet but I thought maybe I'd get some better feedback here. If you'd like, please let me know what you think, specifically about ways I can improve. I tried to keep everyone in character but...that idea quickly derailed. Oh, and please forgive any inadvertent gender-specific pronouns when I'm talking about Frisk in this. It's my first time ever using 'they' and 'them' and it was a challenge. A fun challenge.  
> I'd think anyone would freak the freak out if they were poor Frisk's age and had to face the high octane nightmare fuel that is Omega Flowey.  
> And isn't protective Sans just so HNNNNNNNNNGGGGGGGGGG


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